


An Affair to Remember: The Commissar and His Snake

by prettymanly



Category: Gaunt's Ghosts - Dan Abnett, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fusion, Humor, Possibly Pre-Slash, Soldiers, Sort-of fusion with Ciaphas Cain Hero of the Imperium!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymanly/pseuds/prettymanly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition needs a true Hero of the Imperium to investigate the planet Beryl for suspicions of heresy. Who better to answer the call than the infamous Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt and his Tanith First and Only?</p><p>999.M41 Following Amberley Vail's lead, a young Interrogator embarks on his own journey through the historical archives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Affair to Remember: The Commissar and His Snake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> The footnotes are clickable back and forth. Just click on the number.
> 
> Massive thanks to [delphi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi) and [punchdrunkard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twopunch/pseuds/punchdrunkard) who went above and beyond for their awesome beta job. Any mistakes are all mine. Also, Ao3 is playing hell with my html, I'm sorry if some of the formatting gets confusing. I tried to fix what I could.

INQUISITORIAL DOSSIER: IIIX:4SE:A3ASF3S:XXX

COMPILED BY INTERROGATOR ANTONIUS WONG CHAU-SANG UNDER THE AUSPICES OF INQUISITOR MABODABU, ORDO XENOS  
INQUISITORIAL DATA-LIBRARY  
DATE: 999.M41 

FILE START//

 

__  
**Editorial note:**  
 _I am sure that most who read this are already familiar with the work of the esteemed Inquisitor Amberley Vail who compiled her eye-opening series based upon the famed Commissar Cain's private memoirs. She commented at one point that perhaps her writing might become a source of disillusionment for readers, that perhaps knowing the motivations and thoughts behind the so-called Hero of the Imperium might tarnish his image. It likely has for some, but in my estimation, her Cain archives only act as further proof of both the Emperor's providence and humanity's perseverance. A man such as Cain, a human man bearing so very many human faults, was still capable of serving the Emperor with distinction._

_With that in mind, and with the inspiration of the many long and interminable voyages between star systems where I find myself with very little to do, I have embarked on my own little project of a similar nature._

_Long have I found myself interested in the infamous exploits of Colonel-Commissar Gaunt, whose rise to fame during the Sabbat Crusades of M41 was as fraught with misinformation and controversy as Commissar Cain's heroism was largely uncontested and apparently_ also _fraught with misinformation. I hope that the compilation of this story, and possible future stories with the blessing of my editors and encouragement from you readers, might shed some light upon some of the lesser known parts of this man's life._

_Let us look to 778.M41, Sabbat Worlds, Carcaradon Cluster, not too long after Commissar Gaunt and the Tanith First leave Herodor but prior to their small team insertion to Gereon. In nearly all public records, one will find no more than one or two sentences devoted to their time on the shrine planet Beryl. “There was an Incident of Little Import that was easily settled with the quick thinking and rapid deployment of military aid from multiple Imperial Guard regiments temporarily stationed there for resupply,” would be the gist of it._

_If one were to look at the less public records, however, there is significantly more information, even if it is fragmented and scattered like crumbs across the databases. Here is my attempt to piece together what I believe might have happened._

_I will start with an excerpt from Commissar Gaunt's personal logs._  
  
\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345632, Date: 778.M41**  
I woke this morning, the warp lag still not quite out of my bones and a sour taste in my mouth that wasn't due to the drink I'd shared with a few of my men the night before. The evening had been subdued, though still energetic as the men shared sacra and remembrances. Corbec's loss is still keenly felt by everyone, myself included, and I left before things took an emotionally disastrous turn.

No, this was something else altogether, a sense of disquiet and anticipation that was, perhaps, exacerbated by my secondary loss of Milo. They say that children are more aware of the world around them, that they clearly see the minute shift and flow that adults learn to bar themselves against as they grow older. His keener, younger senses had been hyper-attuned to the dangers on the battlefield in a manner greater even than my experienced mind – older, tired and more dulled. His forewarning, often scant seconds before an attack, had meant life over death for my men and, just as importantly, had bolstered morale. I can only wish him well in this new stage of life and hope that with the Beati at his side, the old suspicions of warp taint will finally pass.1

So with Milo gone, perhaps my own senses had finally reawakened to remind me they still existed. Whatever it was, I woke ill at ease, my mouth gummy and the skin across my back prickling, though the sheets were clean and my sleep undisturbed by dreams. Beltane's heavy knock on the door at that very moment did nothing for my state of mind and I was dressed in minutes.

After a week of orbiting Beryl2 for no reason other than bureaucracy, we were finally to make planetfall – but first, Beltane said quietly as he slouched by the door, someone wished to speak with me. 

That person turned out to be an Inquisitor Abidemi of the Ordo Xenos who came with an apprentice and a smile. I trusted neither. 3

“Commissar Gaunt,” he greeted me, his smile a little too bright and his hand, when I clasped it, sweaty. He was a thin man, dark skinned and head shorn with aquilas above each ear. His teeth were a brilliant white, too brilliant, with the faint pearlescent sheen that I assumed was due to aesthetic enhancement. An imposing man, there was something about his demeanor that made me distrustful, though he seemed to wish to appear as nonthreatening as possible. His assistant, Interrogator Badma, was as beautiful as Inquisitor Abidemi's teeth, his black hair straight and twisted into a loose top knot that trailed down his back to his waist. He did not smile nor did he have much of any expression on his long, lean face.

“Inquisitor Abidemi,” I said, cautious. The Inquisition are a secretive lot, much of their actions left to the sorts of myth and fable that one tells children to terrify them into eating their vegetables. While I understand the necessity of holding one's own council, there are times I have difficulty fathoming the role of an organization that moves completely outside of any jurisdiction but their own. I trust the Emperor's will implicitly. What I do not trust are the hearts of men given the power to do anything in the Emperor's name with impunity. I will go no further with these thoughts. I am well aware how dangerous they are.

What followed with our conversation was of little consequence, mostly light chatter about my plans for the day and what to expect for tea. It was all very civilized, very domestic. I bore with it as long as I could before asking, a little impatiently if he were to get to the point. I had preparations to make and men who still waited for my orders.

I have seen how officers and men often become political animals as they age. Where once they chose action, they later became devoted to another, less physical sort of battle waged behind closed doors in dimly lit, smoky rooms. I feel as if the opposite is true for me. There was a time I might have patiently waited the conversation through to see where Inquisitor Abidemi might have lead us, perhaps tried to read between his words and divine his meaning, but those days were long past. Perhaps I will change my tune later, but this morning, I was snappish and unwilling to cooperate any longer than I already had. I won't stand for political niceties, not after Vervunhive, I thought, and certainly not after Herodor. My disquiet increased with every pleasantry that passed Inquisitor Abidemi's lips.

“I'm waiting for your man to arrive with tea before we begin,” he said. I hadn't ordered anything to be brought to me, and perhaps the confusion showed on my face because Abidemi gestured lightly toward the doors. There was a faint hint of something not quite right, a scent of something, ozone perhaps. Then Elim appeared with a faint scrape of his boots on metal decking, like a serpent slithering into view after having shed his skin. 4 He had a mug in one hand and a sandwich in the other.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. I took the tea while refusing the sandwich.

“I've heard good things about your men and their effectiveness in the field. Stealth and reconnaissance, isn't it?” There was a small shift in Abidemi's demeanor though he still spoke in that irritating manner, as if we were trading pleasantries over tea. I glanced down at my steaming cup, the amber brew within nearly as dark as Interrogator Badma's skin. I drank, waiting him out. “Would this be a characteristic of your entire regiment or of the Tanith in particular?”

I was confused for a moment until I realized he meant the Tanith-born, rather than Tanith the regiment. I asked, “Do you have need of my men?”

“You are more blunt than your reputation portrays,” Abidemi said, then continued quickly. “I do, but reports conflicted wildly and I wished to have a personal assessment.” Pick the thoughts directly from my mind, he meant. Abidemi said, “Yes, exactly that.”

I glanced at Elim, having finished half my tea, which was lukewarm by this point, and found that his hand was empty. If the tiny crumb stuck to the corner of his lips was any indication, then he had eaten my sandwich.5 He had bathed recently, the high arc of his thin cheekbone scrubbed pink, and dampness still clung to the tips of his black hair. He cleaned up well. This was perhaps the second time I nearly hadn't recognized him now that he wasn't covered in a black layer of blood and grime. He was as handsome as ever, and his skin nearly gleamed despite the smudges of gun oil and dust that no soldier is ever entirely free of while still in transit. The dark circles beneath his eyes made him look younger and gave him a racoonish innocence I knew was a lie. “Any of my men are more than capable in both thought and skill should the Emperor require them to act.”

“Including him?” Abidemi asked, his attention switching to Elim, looking him up and down. His gaze lingered in a manner I didn't like – increasingly so as I caught the stiffening of Elim's shoulders. Badma joined the Inquisitor in their silent perusal of my third – now my second in command. He was troublesome as a man, untrustworthy in so many ways6 but as a soldier, he was excellent and I would have his gun at my side at any time.

“ _All_ my men and women,” I said. Abidemi and Badma both shared a look and I did not need warpcraft to know they were communicating silently.

“Then,” Badma said, speaking for the first time. His voice was significantly deeper than I expected, rich and his accent difficult to place. “We do have need for him. And you.”

I agreed. Their asking was only a social nicety, something they both seemed to care about. They could take command at any point for any reason. If I wished to retain any control over matters, I would have to go along.

Letting Elim Rawne loose, completely unsupervised, on an innocent planet doing the Emperor knows what? That won't do. Not at all.7

\--- 

_Here Gaunt's account becomes an itinerary for the day – including the logistics involved in moving not only hundreds of his own men but also coordinating with the commanders of the six other regiments that had been orbiting the planet alongside them – some having been trapped in a bureaucratic tangle and denied landfall for a good three to four weeks prior._

_Rather than including that list here 8, I will summarize the salient points:_

_There were six Imperial guard regiments present in orbit, all freshly freed from their own engagements and sent to Beryl for rest and resupply; the Tanith First, the Shenlong 4th, the Catachan 155th, a contingent of the Flaming Hussars and two sets of mechanized units from the Volpone and Cadians. All were battle-damaged and had taken quite a few losses but, collectively, they were a significant force._

_I will confirm that it is unusual that any one of these regiments, let alone six plus one navy carrier (The Crimson Armageddon) with a full flight deck, were to be directed to Beryl for resupply at all. The planet was ninety percent rock and lacked land for agriculture. Most of their food was and still is imported from any of the three neighboring agriworlds and beyond. Traditionally, Beryl has never been a stopping point for any space traffic outside of scheduled trade shipments and tourist ventures. As such, the overseers were completely unprepared for the sudden influx of several hundred thousand hungry soldiers and crew._

_To give an idea of the state of the planet while the Imperial Guard orbited the small moon-sized rock for weeks, here is an excerpt from the local society papers:_

> DESTROYERS OVERHEAD, DANGER IN OUR MIDST
> 
> Weeks later and the fleet of ships bearing millions of the Imperium's deadliest warriors still hover over our planet like a dark omen. Who amongst us have brought this plague, this retribution to our shores? They watch us, waiting, and this time come bearing a true Hero of the Imperium! True believers, cast yourselves at his feet and beg for his intercession to the Emperor so that we might be spared!

_Most of the news and society papers circulated at the time followed a similar vein with an increasing sense of panic and reiterations that a Hero of the Imperium was arriving to observe the state of the planet. If one were to track the papers and pict feeds backwards, however, one will notice that any mentions of such a Hero is mentioned only in the vaguest sense about a month or two prior to the arrival of the first Guard ships. It is upon the arrival of the ship bearing the Tanith First that the news reports suddenly began to mention this Hero by name: Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt._ 9   
\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345633, Date: 778.M41**  
Planetfall was uneventful, Elim alternating between a malevolent distrust toward the Inquisitors (one that I shared) and a poorly hidden glee at my expense (one I did not, especially when inundated with his unhelpful suggestions regarding both my role in this mission and the state of my attire). Shrine planets being what they were, local protocols needed to be observed. While my uniform sufficed on nearly every other planet, Beryl's history with the Primarch Sanguinius was somehow being used as justification to require everyone above the rank of Lieutenant be draped in feathers and lace, resulting in an entire trunk of hastily assembled evening wear I had absolutely no desire to stuff myself into. Though my day did brighten when I realized that my five sets of brand new dress boots and dancing shoes would require shining. I knew exactly whom I would be ordering to do so.

Neither the Inquisitor nor his junior would be accompanying us, and as soon as the shuttle landed, they exited, disappearing without another word, as if they were merely strangers that just happened to be sharing a military shuttle with a Commissar and his aide.

We waited at the dockmaster's port office and just as our transport arrived, there was a sudden commotion at the end of the throughway. Rather than the expected single car, an entire cavalcade had arrived. I soon found myself stuffed in the back seat of a lumpy, jewel-encrusted carriage with Elim seething as the narrow seating forced him to press warmly against my hip. Assuming him to be my serf, neither the dockmaster nor the accompanying footmen wished to let him on. I intervened. At length. Apparently, sharing a vehicle with one's 'adjutant' was just not done. That Elim was not my actual adjutant was irrelevant. I had no intention of giving ground, calmly stating my case for nearly an hour to a flock of foppish, bejeweled and bewigged men. I did eventually come out of the argument a victor. After a parade through the city, Elim and I, and our luggage, were deposited in a small suite in the Planetary Governor's own winter house at the top spire of Hive Barilla. 

It was there that I finally discovered exactly what role I was to be playing. I stared down at the top of Planetary Governor Ronzoni's balding head as he grasped my hand in both of his and enthusiastically greeted “The Hero of the Imperium”. I did my best to smile heroically, though I suspect it mostly took the form of a grimace. I don't smile well on command, I never did. I must have been convincing enough, however, because the gallery filled with servants, members of the local governance and their spouses erupted in delight. I struggled to keep the smile on my face. Elim, for his part, did no more than glance sidelong at me.

I had known that the Planetary Governor was throwing some 'small' celebratory affair in his home, but what I expected was not what I was confronted with when I stepped foot in the main hall of House Ronzoni. Like fresh food swarmed by goldfish, I was engulfed in a sea of wigs and silk taffeta. This 'small affair' was, perhaps, several hundred people _larger_ than the small I had been imagining. The moment he heard that I had landed at the spaceport, the Governor had diverted my regular transportation and come to personally invite me as his guest. 10 I had expected this, and from the sweaty brow and stress behind his wide smile, I was certain this was not an invitation based on whim nor was it as simple a thing as mere cooperation with the Inquisition. Squeezing his hand, I accepted.

Not more than a few hours in and several well-monied individuals have already made overtures of an oblique sort, possibly wishing me to add weight to their little pet projects and social standing by dint of association with my name. Other ingratiating sorts seemed to wish for me to join what sounded like a gentlemen's club, some 'secret lodge' as one particularly obsequious man outright called it. Considering the Imperium's history with lodges, I felt it prudent to feign disinterest and decline. I _was_ interested, but less in membership and more in an investigative sense. Nothing would come of any further probing, I knew, these lodges were likely a euphemism for gatherings held at a brothel rather than truly suspicious activities. I haven't anything against diversion, but not while I'm on duty. 

I set about dutifully entertaining the various lords and ladies plus their armies of pampered sons and Society-ready daughters.11

Two days later, there still isn't much else to report.

\---  
 _  
_

_For completeness' sake and to give a better idea of what was happening while Gaunt was tasked with entertaining Rank and Functionary, I have included a copy of Rawne's mission report. While he is reputed to have had a way with words, none of that is evident in this particular set of files, where he evidently believed brevity was key to finishing unwanted paperwork as quickly as possible. His sentences could hardly be called that and he did at times veer toward the colorful. 12 For a report scrawled with all the care of someone trying to fill out a form while exiting the atmosphere in a shuttle, this scrap of writing does bear a surprising amount of personality and is a rare window into the mind of the historically elusive Major. _

 

**Codename: Delivering the fething mail  
Organization: Ordo Xenos  
Reporter: Major Elim Rawne, serial number 234897523534512  
** ****Status: In transit 

**Day 1:** Made planetfall, got luggage stowed. Preliminary recon – 5 possible exits on top floor overlooking main atrium. 10 more on 2nd flr and at least 4 leading to 2 adjacent wings. Security nightmare. Anyone coming and going at will + servants access on opposite side. We were given a set of rooms in the east wing near the bell tower overlooking a duck pond  & fountain with a naked girl w/spiky tits. Looked like 'security' amounted to spikes and loose tiles on slanting roofs. Guardsmen under orders not to move, blink, or otherwise show they're alive. Not sure how anyone can fething guard or see anything happening like that, but that's Beryl for you. Apparently that's what the lordships like around here. Blink once sideways and they're all, “Oh no, you can't control your own servants?” Not a fething servant.

Lots a of luggage. Also a parade of tailors with wigs as big as heads. Commissar Gaunt looked ~~like a skinny, evil cock~~ 13 a striking lord in all that lace. Asked the tailor to put it in black, but he went with white because it's in season. Gaunt didn't want the ~~bright-ass red~~ vermillion lining put in his coat, but after a quick look-over at the local style silk lining went in. Contact nowhere in sight. 

**Day 2:** Still no contact. Located the kitchens (all 3 of them), servant quarters, guard entrances, 30 baths (private or otherwise), air ducts going everywhere and into the sewers (I have no idea why). Servant entrances apparently mean hidden doors and halls behind almost every tapestry in the place. Guards still not blinking but found one sweating near south rear entrance. Caught whispering by the wide open window in the hall but the people took one look at me when I poked my head out and ran into the rose bushes. Fething 14 idiots. Shined all of Gaunt's shoes. Got smudgy/kept having to get up halfway to answer door. Made sure to shake a few hands.

Fancy dinner and cards at night, ball tomorrow, then the day after and then the day after that. Chatted up servant girl and got food from kitchens that'll keep overnight just in case. She said something about how there're four factions (politics) and “Some of them get up to really weird stuff at night. Don't go wandering the halls at night, some of the Lords like more than women and aren't liable to listen to 'No',” she said.

\---  
 _  
There are not many records of Abidemi's activities at this time or for any of the three years during this period. However, here is one of the few invoices filed by Badma that escaped censorship:_

> Receipt for: 8 dress suits, 6 pairs of dinner shoes, a case of tea, 16 grenades, 300,000 reams of paper, 200 barrels of ink, one bale of wire and three canisters of liquid promethium plus other miscellaneous expenses to a total sum of 280,000 imperials.
> 
> Please also refer to form 35CD:1:11:iii32XV45 for XXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXX ships XX XXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XX Destroyer-class frigates XXXXXXXXXX X XX XX XXXXX X reroute to Beryl XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXX XXX XXX XXXXX XX XXXX XXXXX XXXX XX XXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXX incursion XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXX X X XX X XXXXXXX XXXX XXX XXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXX please stand by. – **This has been redacted by order of the Holy Inquisition. Interrogator Wong, you really should know better and thank you for bringing this to our attention. All other pertinent and permissible information has been allowed.**  
> 

\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345634, Date: 778.M41**  
Several days as a guest of the Lord-Governor and my amusement at Elim shining my boots could only last so long before his baleful simmering became more irritating than entertaining. I refuse to actually stoop to abusing my authority for the sake of my own entertainment so I let him go about his real duties while I waited for my next obligatory social gathering to commence. (He _is_ amusing when riled, though.)  15

I'm unaccustomed to this dragging of my feet, yet that is what I am doing. I could hardly say that I am a warmongering sort. War is duty. I do not seek it. The heart-stopping pound of ordnance and the staccato kick of a bolt pistol in my hand, the wet slip-and-catch of my power sword slicing through flesh and hitting bone, the terror of narrowly having my face blown off only to turn and see that the round that missed me _hadn't_ missed one of my men – I do not find thrill in these things. Yet given the chance to eat good food, to have beautiful women hang from my arm, to do nothing more than dance all night and day and drink to my heart's content... it is funny how such things can become torturous when I have no desire for them.

Perhaps it is because I know that there are things I could be doing. That things are happening outside of my purview and I desire to know what they are so I might take action. But I cannot because my duty is here, doing nothing more than smiling and pretending to be a man I am not. It is aggravating, and I miss the weight of both my power sword and my bolt pistol. They sit in my trunk where they are of no use to me. I feel naked in a way I have never felt while undressed. All is not what it seems. There is danger in this place and I am unarmed.16

\--- 

**Supplemental log: Package in transit  
Organization: Ordo Xenos  
Reporter: Major Elim Rawne, serial number 234897523534512  
** ****Status: Delivered

 **Day 3:** Thought I saw someone looking at me funny but wasn't Contact. Actually was a bunch of someones looking at me funny. Made my gun finger itch. Inquisition swanning about. Still no contact. No one seemed to get that being clandestine means not having your secret fething conversations right outside open windows or in front of that big paper screen sitting in the main hall of the most high traffic part of the building. Lot of secret meetings happening at night. Couldn't tell what, exactly. A couple were Lords sneaking into someone else's wives' beds. Good blackmail material. People looking funny at Gaunt too, different funny. Kept hearing buzzing – sounded like someone trying to spit acid in my ear. There was a bit of a to-do, apparently Planetary Governor went missing but since his family is still around, they figure maybe he's joined in with the group bed-hopping. Not that anyone's saying that to the missus. 

**Day 4:** Found Contact who was so obvious, kicking myself not finding her sooner. No idea why I had to find her and not the other way around. She didn't know either. Delivered the fething mail, finally. Contact told me the Inquisitors left me something interesting just in case I might need it. Considering that something was enough hot sauce to kick the entire top spire up into the sky in one go plus killing everyone in it, I took it as a hint. Kept my straight silver in my pants just in case. Bumped into scared kid, turned out to be servant girl's little brother. Seemed worried about his sister but then helped me get tea-time snacks anyway. 

Got surprised by a guy my height, same build, bad dye-job and wearing the same clothes so I guess trying to be me. Not sure why – to replace me? Not like Gaunt wouldn't notice immediately. Came at me with a knife. Boy had gone already so I felt free to take action – had to get it done before anyone else came in, which I knew wasn't likely because the boy said all night-time cooking went on in the main kitchen. The one I was in got shut down until morning.

Dye-job went left, so I went left as well and smashed his knife-hand with a rolling pin that'd been sitting on the counter within easy reach. He wasn't expecting that and dropped the knife. I hit him on the head with the pin. Punched him in the jaw, then broke his nose with a followup right hook. He stood up to it pretty well, or maybe he was just too stupid to fall down properly. He pulled another knife, same hand as before. So I spun into his guard, grabbed his wrist and broke it. Then smacked it against the counter's edge just to let him know trying again was a bad idea. 

Showing the only bit of smartness in him, when I was doing all that and he was gurgling through the blood spurting out his nose, he pulled a needle gun with his other hand. I was close, curled into his shoulder and pinning half his torso against the counter with my shoulder, so I guess he figured I'd somehow not notice what was going on with the other half of his body. I could feel him moving just fine, though, even while holding his knife-arm, so while he lifted the gun to point at me, I pulled back and elbowed him in the throat. Stunned him, then pulled back to give him a real proper punch in the throat. Did it a couple more times to be sure.

He choked to death. Cleaned the rolling pin and let the Inquisition know. They work fast. Body was gone by the time I doubled back. No alarm.

\--- 

_The following excerpt from Gaunt's logs goes on a bit long and doesn't, at first glance, appear to have much relevance – however, I've put this here for a number of reasons. Firstly, Gaunt's observations outside of Rawne's reports are a good indication of the tone of the party as the two men infiltrated Beryl's society at the highest level. As much as Gaunt complained in his personal logs, I doubt that a blind infiltration was a foreign concept to him. Especially since, in a little over a year, he would be tasked with his infamous mission to Gereon. Understandably, it is preferable to have a clear understanding of all parameters before submersion, but that is a luxury rather than a requirement. I am sure we are all well-acquainted with the frustrations of being on the wrong end of 'need to know'._

_Secondly, I find it to be illuminating what Gaunt is willing to admit to in his private accounts, apparently half-written while antisocially hiding behind potted plants at balls and garden tea parties._

 

 **Ibram Gaunt's log 2345638, Date: 778.M41**  
Elim's mission was completed in less time than anticipated. This came as a relief as the lack of real pockets in these feathered dinner jackets meant he had been forced to carry his 'mail' in his front pants pocket. The subsequent lump gave our fellow party guests hours of entertainment and left me with an irritating collection of bruises along my ribcage from all the repeated elbowing.  17

I have, unsuccessfully, attempted to put a stop to all the sniggering. As, for the sake of my sanity, I don't need to have my attention drawn repeatedly to what may or may not lurk within Elim's trousers. I believe the party-goers have come to the unflattering consensus that I am over-serious.18

There was an incident earlier today that I had put out of my mind, only to find myself returning repeatedly to throughout the day. I write it here to clear my head.

Governor Ronzoni was absent, as he had been since the morning, so left to their own devices, his guests and I gathered in the Vermillion room to genteelly pace about a small man-made garden, a hydroponic berry patch so thoroughly sculpted and shaped that I had at first thought the plants were fake and the tiny fruits mere ornaments. I passed the first hour with cucumber sandwiches and discussions of politics and philosophy with an old Lord by the name of Berteloni – most of which I pretended to have little or no opinion on – before I finally managed to make my escape to the opposite side of the sculpted topiary. I kept pace with the main party so that when they advanced along the path, I did as well, and thus, I was able to keep from further social contact. I have never been unsociable, but at the time, I found the very idea of engagement to be undesirable even if another part of me burned with curiosity at the whispered conversation I was never close enough to catch. 

I was staring at a latticework that edged an overly ornate, nearly grotesque piece of statuary depicting one of the ugliest renditions of the Primarch Sanguinius I have ever seen19 when someone approached from behind. Turning, I realized it was Inquisitor Abidemi, his hand tucked into Interrogator Badma's elbow in the manner of an old man needing aid to walk.

I hadn't realized they were also guests, which made me wonder why they couldn't deliver their damn message themselves. 

“You may wonder, but don't expect an answer. I have my reasons, Commissar, and there is more at stake than you are at liberty to know. Just keep an eye on your surroundings,” Abidemi murmured as he pulled close.19 And there it was again, this mysterious pronouncement that I should somehow keep myself open and free on the off chance that I would eventually become aware of something undisclosed. Perhaps via warpcraft.

“It would help if I knew what to look for,”I said quietly, letting some of the frustration I felt into my voice. 

“You are not to look for anything. Your duty is to stay here and be... you.” Abidemi chuckled then, turning a little in Badma's grasp to pat at his junior's hand, though he had not spoken. He wagged a finger in my face, playing the old man role to the hilt. I wondered at that, if he were playing mind tricks on the other party goers. His face was unlined and looked younger than my own. He could hardly be called old by any stretch of the word. “I hear there is great disappointment after that performance you pulled in front of the hive dockmaster. Word spread quickly, I assure you. Society was salivating at the possibility of scandal between you and your adjutant, but you've left your audience with no gossip, nothing titillating at all. They even went through the trouble of giving you adjoining rooms. You do realize servants are kept in the west wing?” 

“He's not a servant.” I glanced quickly across the garden to where Elim stood with the cluster of footmen who were waiting personal instruction from their masters. Our gazes met. That familiar, angry challenge was still there, comforting in its presence. He looked away first.

“And that would be fraternization,” I said stiffly.

“Which is hardly set in stone. The Imperium is as wide as it is varied.” Which is true and something I do find discomfiting at times. Fraternization rules, when they exist, vary wildly from regiment to regiment, often influenced by the attitudes of the original home world or the commanders put in charge of them. I allow the Tanith significantly more latitude than I ever thought I would have for any regiment, but that does not mean I am willing to relax my own rules for myself. 

A pretty girl no older than sixteen giggled as she passed with her mother and aunt in tow. I nodded to them. I wondered if Abidemi was signaling a change in topic. Nearby, something splashed quietly – likely someone getting a bit tipsy and kicking at one of the nutrient baths that were disguised as small streams throughout the garden. The water in the central pool began to turn pink as dark red tendrils curled in from another, larger pool situated behind a cluster of ornamental trees. The solution being added to the water had not mixed properly, unusual for a garden this well-managed.

Elim was gone, possibly to fulfill his duties. It was just as well; I didn't want to look at him after having this uncomfortable conversation. 

“That hardly matters. It'd be no different if you became involved with your junior. It'd be messy, an abuse of authority and would only interfere with your duties. And _that_ would be dereliction of the Emperor's Will.” That sounded patronizing even to my own ears, but I said it anyway. I was met with twin brows raised on both Inquisitors' faces. With a start, I realized I had misread the linking of their arms, but it was too late to retract what I said even if I were of a mind to. Which I wasn't. I stood by my words. The lives of soldiers were already far too tightly wound together. To add the stress of romantic dalliance was not only not worth the trouble, but was downright dangerous.

“You know what the difference is between the Inquisition and the rest of you?” Badma asked quietly, his voice a pleasant rumble. He sounded amused.

“What?” I asked when he didn't immediately continue.

“The Guard, the PDF, the various rulers – even those of the Mechanicus, all of you. You meditate. You scrutinize your own movements and the movements of your neighbors. You pray to the Emperor that you are following the correct path. _His_ path.”

“Yes.”

“You pray because you are uncertain your actions are correct. We do not. We the Inquisition _know_ that no matter what it is, everything we do is the Emperor's Will.”

I had many things I wished to say to that but nothing that could be said out loud. I am sure they heard me anyway; I made certain to think very hard. They left then, while I denuded a nearby bush of its berries, still entirely in the dark as to what my role was in this entire affair. The small nutrient bath beside the shrubbery stank with copper and had turned a deep, blood red. It suited my mood perfectly. I was beginning to regret coming along, except... except what? I suppose my other choice would have been to allow Elim to be taken away. Alone. While much about the Inquisition is a great black hole of mystery, there is one common factor in nearly every story one might hear; once they become involved, things rarely end well for anyone. 21

Months later, I still think about Soric and wonder what happened to him after he had been taken. This lack of clarity was not the clean ending I had wanted for him; his disappearance unsettles me. I do not fault Viktor's quickness in dealing with him. He had already shown uncommon mercy in allowing Soric to live so long after I refused to immediately execute him. Signing him away to the Inquisition was likely Victor's acknowledgment of my desire for Soric to continue living. We all still remember him and his steadfastness, even though those memories are now as tainted with questions as he had been by the Warp. A part of me wished I'd had the chance to put a bullet in his head, if only to have settled things firmly and clearly. 

No, I take it back. For Soric to still live is a better alternative to having to shoot him. Alive, he has a greater chance of being trained in his skills, of continuing to serve the Emperor as I must believe he always had.22 After all, are not half the Inquisition psykers? 23 I tell myself this.

The Inquisitors' words stayed with me until the evening and a hot bath soaked the tedium of the day away. Baths were a rare luxury and damned if I wasn't going to take advantage of it! A certain Lord Buitoni (the one wishing me to endorse his push for an increase in taxation of canned grox imports in the coming Parliamentary vote because, ridiculously, “Canning only serves to indulge the poor in their attempts to further abuse their own bodies!”) arrived to pay his respects, along with his six daughters and his second son in the obvious hope I might find myself interested in one of them. I rang for Elim to come and serve tea and he did so, slinking in like a man that'd just slit someone's throat.24 For some reason, he was grimy, with dark stains on his clothing, and half the feathers torn off his coat. He served the tea with a cold, slightly manic smile and his dirty thumbs in the cups.

I sat back, hiding my own smile behind my cup as I drank and my unwelcome guests cringed, bound by politeness. This wasn't the strangely servile Elim of the last few days – it was my familiar one, the soldier, as sharp as an unsheathed knife. Rude son-of-a-bitch. Vicious. Strangely dependable. Obviously coasting on the adrenaline of a finished fight. Seeing him, and knowing that the night's report would be an interesting one, I felt myself finally relax. 

\--- 

**Supplemental log: Mail delivered  
Organization: Ordo Xenos  
Reporter: Major Elim Rawne, serial number 234897523534512  
** ****Status: cooling my fething heels 

Day 5: Berry picking trip in hydroponics garden. Assassins in the water. Two of them, both wearing bodygloves with stealth gear. One popped up with a hot wire. Killed them dead before anyone noticed. Mission parameters stressed 'low-key' so I stuck them back in the water, let Inquisitors know again and walked away. Everyone'd think the blood was part of the nutrient bath. Served tea. Men in red try again that night. Was in the hall, bringing food when I looked out the window and caught movement on the roof. 

Climbed out and went after them. Two men again. One big, tall one with a lot of upper muscle and none on his legs; one skinny one with really long arms and hair. Neither noticed me until I got in right behind them. Put down the tray and tapped the Big Guy that doesn't know how to exercise properly (I'll call him Chicken Legs). When he turned around, I blinded him with hors d'oeuvres. Ran past him, yanking on his arm so he turned around with me and bumped into his friend (I'll call him Roof Spider). Roof Spider bounced off Chicken Leg's chest and lunged for me, but stepped on a loose tile. A guy with reach like that, it was an obvious move so I had already sidestepped, but landed on a loose tile myself. Both of us slid down and nearly went off the side of the roof. 

Caught myself when the heel of my boot25 was speared onto an upraised guard spike26 and I got stuck. Chicken Legs recovered and took a free swing at me while I was trying not to fall off the roof. I took the hit, my heel got wedged harder on the spike. Roof Spider came back up fiddling with some sort of ring on his hand. Twisted and gakking fire came out. The fething bastards were shooting fire at me. 

Done playing, I pulled my warknife and yanked my foot out of my damn boot and feinted in. Went left, around and low and right under Chicken Leg's arms as he went to grab for me. I had no idea how good these two were as friends, but I'd have bet that Roof Spider wouldn't want to risk toasting the big guy along with me, so I stuck close to Chicken Legs. The guy was strong, about a hand bigger than me in all directions, but slower and he didn't know how to move as well. I knew he'd be easier to deal with. Big guys like that, without the training to tell them to do otherwise, most times they learn to hit first. Guys like Roof Spider _have_ to learn to dodge before they hit anyone. 

If I took out Chicken Legs first, Roof Spider wouldn't have anyone to cover for him. So priority one was Chicken Legs. Stuck close, pulled my straight silver and lunged low. I slashed once and changed directions when he dodged, slashing his leg on the back swing. He fell, tiles breaking under him and a huge bloody gash opened up hip to knee, gushing blood almost immediately. He had training, clutched at his leg and didn't make a sound otherwise. Roof Spider was moving fast, his long hair flying while he ran up the side of the roof and into an area overshadowed by large gargoyles. His clothes must have had the same stealth capabilities as the water assassins, because his form shimmered once and then slid almost entirely out of view. Fire would be next, the moment I moved and my back was to the moon. I grabbed the side of my coat and yanked, right around the bit of loose thread I'd been picking at all day. Inky black, shimmery feathers came loose by the handful and I threw them into the air. Dodged right out of the cloud and into the shadows, rolling as I did so. 

I was right, Roof Spider was visible when light hit him from a different angle. He had his arm up and was already twisting his ring again. I surprised him, bouncing off a nearby gargoyle to give me the momentum to get him from the side. I cut his ring-hand off before he could react. Then, as he was turning to look at me, I gutted him. 

He fell, slowly sliding down the roof. I went back to Chicken Legs who was grunting and trying to roll away. I slit his throat. Kicked both off roof and into the moat. Looked like they were trying to sneak into the private bath while Gaunt was in there. Dodgy. Maybe part of that “don't know what 'no' means” crowd. Lost track of the tray. Got back in, grabbed another and served more tea.27

 

\---

 **Ibram Gaunt's log 2345636, Date: 778.M41**  
After a quiet debriefing, partially in sign, in quietly murmured words and partially written. I burned the evidence after sending Elim to bed and scattered the ashes out the window. I had much to think about and very little action I could feasibly take. 

I woke comfortably the next morning to the scent of hot tea, chestnut bread and the sight of Elim quietly moving about the room, the dappled sunlight streaming through the lace curtains layering his black-clad form in shifting spots as if he were a long, dark serpent sliding beneath a canopy of trees. I indulged in the peace for a few long moments, watching him as he set the table and brushed dust off the sleeve of my freshly pressed shirt.28

Even though I hadn't been there to witness them (and that rankled; my gun hand itched), the assassination attempts set the last few days in a new light. The strangeness I'd attributed to local customs and norms shifted to insidiousness, to poorly disguised attempts at subterfuge. Strangely despite that, I still found myself basking in the early morning warmth. It was here, away from the various fat lords and their wives and their simpering entourages, that I somehow found myself feeling the safest I had ever felt in days. We were just two tired soldiers waiting for the day to begin. By my accounting, Elim had saved my life twice in the space of a few days and here he was, walking away from it somehow not cognizant that he had done so. Just who is indebted to who here?29 It is his duty, of course, as it would be mine should I find myself in his position, but...

I sat up reluctantly. “Elim,” I said. 

Elim straightened slowly, taking a chunk of sweet bread from his mouth. With a faintly questioning note, he said, “Gaunt.” 

I thought about it, about the resentment that always lingered behind his eyes, the sullenness that rarely wasn't clouding his lean face. His expression was open now, clear. He hardly looked the hard-edged son of a bitch he really was, and I found myself wondering again about his parentage. He had to have had a father, a mother, yet the thought of some hapless pair of parents bringing such a man into the world was difficult to fathom.

Completely unrestrained, Elim finished eating the breakfast I am certain was meant for me. Could I ruin the comfort of the morning with my gratitude? 

I thought better of it and sat up completely, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Nevermind,” I said. “Forget the dinner jacket. Get me my uniform. I don't want to be far from my bolt pistol today.” After a few moments' thought, I strapped the power sword of Heironyo Sondar to my belt as well.

That decision, as it turned out, had been a prodigious one. Practically prophetic.

\--- 

_The following are a collection of short notes from a variety of sources to further enumerate things not covered in Gaunt's personal writings or Rawne's very brief notes._

**A letter from Inquisitor Abidemi to an unknown contact:**

> Just a quick update before I am finished here and move on to my next port of call: I have done as you asked, as a personal favor, though the Major may prove to be significantly more distracting than I expected. The man's attractive enough, with a fit soldier's form and a pretty face, but there's a knife's-edged manner about him that I believe to be a defect in his character that no change in clothing will help. He's rather serpentine. Admittedly, his inclusion was my fault, as my own personal defect rose to the fore and my main motivation switched from helping you to having a little fun with Gaunt. (Sorry, but you're not nearly as interesting.) Having seen Rawne in action, however, I believe we may have been misled about the Tanith's capabilities and they are being grossly misused in the field. With the way things are going now... it may still work in our favor or we might have made an already skittish target go to ground. At any rate, for the moment, I consider this Gaunt's chance for a brief vacation before our plans are set in motion. After that... we shall see. I need to meet and discuss the Gereon situation. – A30  
> 

**Collected blurbs and various bylines from news feeds across the public port channels:**

> **Colonel-Commissar's Adjutant Turns Heads With Surprising, Serpentine Slip!**  
>  We're all familiar with the infamous gown slip incident by last season's visiting off-world dignitary, Lady-Chief Yuusha. It appears that this season has delivered us a gem of incomparable clarity and worth. While the Imperial Guard are certainly famed for their heroism and glory, they aren't nearly as known for their fashion sense, and as expected, when the great Hero Colonel-Commissar Gaunt arrived at port, he lived up to our already low standards, sporting the usual uniform; boxy, oversized coat and equally roomy trousers. Luckily for all involved, Barilla's finest tailors were willing to accept this great undertaking.
> 
> Imagine our surprise when he showed up at the hottest party of the season, making his debut showing in the latest fashions -- my oh my did he cut a fine figure! [click for pict!] Oh my, does he cut a fine figure! The nearly skin-tight trousers were filled out quite nicely, and the cut of the coat showed off his battle-ready form to perfection. 
> 
> But! What is this? The mysterious Mr. R, the Commissar's adjutant made quite the impressive showing himself. What is the man carrying in his pocket and is it happy to see us? (We are certainly happy to see it!) That devilish man is packing a veritable sea serpent within his trousers and it will not be tamed! Perhaps he should have chosen a coat with a longer hem, but you'll certainly not hear us complaining! Now, who amongst us are willing to brave the ire of his Commissar to discover whether his adjutant's trousers tells truth or lies? [click for pict!]
> 
> **Governor Ronzoni Missing, Wife In Tears!**  
>  Reliable sources within the PDF Special Unit have confirmed that Planetary-Governor Tort Ronzoni has been missing ever since he left his bedroom in the middle of the night to investigate a strange smell he insisted emanated from the hall. When asked whether this 'strange smell' wasn't just a transparent excuse for the Governor to go down the hall and visit his latest guests as he had done with every of his guests for the last six years, his wife erupted tearfully, “Of course not!” and reporters were abruptly removed from the premises. In the meantime, sources say that the Colonel-Commissar's quarters were disappointingly quiet, with the heroic soldier working on his paperwork and his sly, dangerous-looking servant doing nothing more than eating an entirely silent meal. Despite his devilish appearance, we were disappointed to discover that the adjutant retired alone for the night in a separate room and the next morning, there was no indication that the arrangement had changed at any point. So if the Governor wasn't present, if the Hero of the Imperium was retired for the night and his adjutant wasn't slithering anywhere interesting, then what was the source of the mysterious thumping noises emanating from the west wing? Inquiring minds wish to know!
> 
>  
> 
> **Wild Animals Fornicating In Our Sewers**  
>  Continued complaints of strange noises and screams emanating from deep within our sewers have led the formation of a special taskforce devoted to wildlife management. A warning has been issued asking that residents stay indoors until the suspected animals have been found and dealt with. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to approach unknown animals in the area. Injury from vermin is likely to lead to gangrene, pestilence and ritual cleansing. There is also a great chance that the creatures in question are not injured but are instead mating, in which case, they would be significantly more aggressive. If you see or hear anything suspicious, please contact your local registry and they will direct you to the appropriate department. 

**The surviving fragment of a letter from the young Duchess Cipriani to her sister on the neighboring Hive Delallo:**

>   
>  XXXXXXXXXXs only exciting! Must say that this Hero of the Imperium is hardly as heroic as one would think. He's utterly frightening and so imposing, I admit that I nearly had a fit of vapors when he looked directly at me, and between you and me, my undergarments haven't been the same since. Don't tell Xavier I said that, he'll be beside himself with jealousy and he's already behaving in such a strange secretive manner. I would hardly wish to give him greater incentive to sneak around. I'm married and therefore I can't take advantage, but as the rumors about the Hero's relationship with his adjutant are apparently exaggerated and he is currently unattached! Now is your chance to finally find a husband, dear sister. If tall, pale and frightening isn't to your taste, you could always take advantage of his man, whom I'm told under no uncertain terms is _not _his servant. This Mr. R is quite the devil. Short, but equally dangerous-looking and I hear his knife-work is _quite_ impressive, if you know what I mean. Come, come at once. __
> 
> __Now, about that XXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
> _ _  
> 

_If pressed, I may admit that my main motivation was to prove my earlier point about Rawne's appearance. At any rate, onward._

\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345636B, Date: 778.M41**

I was sitting at a small table across from Lord Berteloni, the friendly old man regaling me with tales of his glory days as a career soldier with the local PDF. His was a familiar sort across the Imperium: old, loud and entirely full of himself but easy to sit with and share a game or two of 6-card hand. Which was what I had been doing the past few hours to avoid dancing with any more eligible daughters or their equally eligible brothers.31

He patted at his brow with a handkerchief despite the cool crispness of the breeze that came from the open terrace. 

“I dare say, I do believe I've lost again,” he said, huffing. “I thought you intimidating enough before, but you are doubly so in uniform. What's the occasion?”

I reached out to gather the deck and reshuffle. “No occasion at all. My adjutant spilled this morning's breakfast across my trunk and the whole lot had to be laundered. This was the only clean set I had left.” 

“Is that what you youngsters are calling it these days?” It would appear that the Inquisitors were right and my relationship with Elim had been suspected this entire time.32 Berteloni laughed, a wheezing, gasping sound I took for amused innuendo. He sounded more pained than amused. Strangely, I felt a faint buzzing. Felt, rather than heard. It was just barely there at the corner of my perception – a thrumming irritatingly out of earshot. “Spilling the breakfast, that's funny! Though, in all seriousness, it's hard to find good help these days, no matter where you go.” It wasn't funny but Berteloni sniggered anyway, his wide chin jiggling beneath thick mutton chops and an impressively sculpted mustache.

I finished shuffling the deck in a showy manner and dealt us both a new hand. “Hear, hear,” I said. Something was happening, I could feel it. There was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with back room politics or wives politely snubbing each other over cake. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye near a row of potted plants, but when I glanced over, all I saw was a servant passing by with a tray of drinks. I snagged two, setting the glasses to the side. We continued playing, trading mildly humorous stories about life in the service. 

We were deep into our last hand when I looked up and saw that Berteloni was dabbing at his forehead again, as he had been throughout our last game, his complexion flushed unhealthily. He seemed nervous. “Are you alright?” I asked, suspecting at this point that all was _not_ well, though at the time I could not tell whether it was due to honest trouble or if Berteloni was in the early stages of a health crisis.

“You know, Commissar,” Berteloni said after waving a servant over to grab a second drink, having already finished the first. “I feel that after these last few days, I've gotten to know you. I like you. I really do.” 

“Thank you,” I said, uncertain where the sweating man was going with this. Instincts tingling with the beginnings of alarm, I surreptitiously slid my hand nearer my holster. “I'm glad of it.” There was more movement, and this time I caught sigh of a striped feather sleeve belonging to an 'immobile' guardsman who slipping out of sight around the terrace doors. It seemed they were allowed to move after all.

“It's a pity,” Berteloni began, then catching sight of my hand which rested lightly on my bolter, smiled ruefully. “It is a pity. I don't suppose you'd be willing to join us? We could do with a man of your stature.”

“Join you in what, exactly? I've only offers of marriage or to go hunting, and I don't believe you're asking for either.” And there had been numerous politically motivated offers, but I hadn't taken them seriously at the time – they'd simply been far too unrealistic for them to be serious. Or so I thought. Apparently, I had been wrong. There were more men coming in, and the women at the nearest table had set aside their cards, their hands demurely hidden within the layers of their voluminous, feathered skirts and, I suspected, upon weapons of some sort. 

“I'm talking about our battle against tyranny, of stagnation. Of the senseless and arbitrary laws of the enforcers of the Imperium who repress our wills for no reason except to hold onto their own power. The Emperor, well, he might have had a good idea or two a millennium ago, but the man is dead and the men who continue exercising–” He went on in this manner, hardly making sense. Over the course of the last few days, he'd done much of this, going on about this and that topic, often railing about politics and the philosophy behind some newer superstitions. But where I’d originally thought of it as the innocent ramblings of the old, I now heard nothing more than the words of a madman. 

“That's heresy,” I said simply. Under other circumstances, I would have shot him no more than two words into his disgusting, heretical diatribe. My ears burned as his spittle sprayed the air and his voice overlaid painfully with that damn buzzing. I should have shot him, but there was more at work here than a single old man and his mad friends. I feigned a calm I did not feel and waited to hear him out, even if it pained me to do so. 

“I would tell you, bad timing, dropping in at this point. But we both know that isn't true, you aren't here by accident.”

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

Berteloni growled, anger finally rising in his face. “Don't take me or any of us for fools, not with those ships orbiting overhead!”

All conversation around us had stopped, most everyone having given up all pretext that this was an innocent gathering. I was surrounded and the exits were blocked. 

“I'm afraid you are mistaken. Those ships are not–”

“You will deny it,” Berteloni said, “but it is quite obvious.”

I am certain that there had been more at work than an Administratum cockup. Beryl, of all worlds to end up on. _Beryl._ But I could hardly say that. 

“Very well. You still haven't explained what you wish with me,” I said. 

“You're famous. And names are symbols, they have meaning. This is our chance to let the whole of the Imperium know our commitment to our ideals! We can't let this chance pass. We can't.” Berteloni stood, arms flung up as his voice reached an oratory crescendo. That buzzing had become audible, and as the walls seemed to wobble, writhing and undulating on their foundations, I drew my bolt pistol.

\--- 

**Supplemental log: Mail already fething delivered  
Organization: Ordo Xenos  
Reporter: Major Elim Rawne, serial number 234897523534512  
** ****Status: Killing everything in sight 

**Day 6:** Orders to act if anything strange is seen. Followed Inquisition. They disappeared carrying a box. Followed bunch of robed secretive guys down into domed area under main hall. Pushed the tits on one statue and pulled the cock on another and tiled circle-pattern floor spun open into a big hole with stairs. 

Found the servant girl and her little brother, what was left of them. 33 “Lords get up to really weird stuff” makes you think whips and furry animals. They'd skinned her and were dancing naked wearing that skin and live animal heads. Couldn't tell which lords and ladies. Then they fucked a live tentacle cow-thing's eye socket. Girl and her brother still alive when I left, but pretty sure they're dead now. Found Planetary-Governor too. Was also still alive even if he was literally all bits and pieces. Blood everywhere, writing on the walls made my eyes hurt. Chanting got louder and louder and sounded more like bees than people. Buzzing got in my head. Could've sworn I saw the two Inquisitors and the Contact run down one of the side corridors but when I looked again, there was no one there.34

Snuck right back out that room, got the “nice little gift” the Inquisition left me and rigged the whole fething dome. 

\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345636C, Date: 249.778.M41**

“Berteloni! What are you saying? Are you drunk already?” a man demanded from nearby. Lord Aldiva, if I recall, the man with two wives and three sons, one of which had entered the Commissariat. It would seem that not everyone present agree with Berteloni's line of thinking. Unfortunately for Aldiva, it was the wrong time for him to speak out. Berteloni wiggled his arm and a compact mini-laspistol rigged to a holster under his sleeve popped out. He fired with an unexpected ease, squeezing the trigger as his arm came up and blasting Aldiva right through the chest. There was a shocked silence as the man fell slowly backwards and hit the floor, dead.

I wasted no time and flipped the table into Berteloni, scattering our cards and the small yellow flower arrangement that we had pushed aside to make room for our game. Our wine glasses slid off and shattered with a decorous tinkle at odds with the sudden violence, and I felt the wet splash of liquid seep into the leg of my trousers. Laspistols and needle guns came out all around me, pulled from petticoats and bodices and ruffled waistcoats. People were screaming, some trying to flee from the room only to be cut down as their way was barred by their fellow guests and the now mobile guards. 

I ducked left, kicking tables over and throwing chairs as I went, forcing anyone nearby to duck as well. Before anyone could react, I killed two guardsmen with bolts to the head. Their wigs, white and fluffy and now gore-spattered were knocked into the air as they were blown off from the force of the explosion. One wig struck a matronly, screaming woman while the other sailed gracefully out an open window.

A moment later, a woman to my left fired. It was only through sheer luck or the grace of the Emperor that I stumbled at that moment and the bullet sailed over my chest with barely an inch to spare. The bullet hit Lady Afreschi in the chest and began smoking immediately on contact. Lady Afreschi dropped her own pistol to tug at the neck of her gown and began howling as the flesh around the wound melted. The bullet had been hollow, filled with some sort of acidic toxin.35

I spun, drawing my power sword. It hummed faintly as it easily took her head off with little resistance. I vaulted over fallen tables and ducked behind one of the many narrow, decorative pillars spaced evenly through the room. I fired again, taking down three more old men. More guards charged through the entrances on either side of the chamber. I shot them as they squeezed through the doors, two at a time and more intent on entering than they were in attacking smartly. I could hardly complain. It was to my benefit. 

The walls reddened, continuing to pulsate, flushing and throbbing. A great round lump formed, pushing forward, a spherical shape twitching within a thick membrane. It vibrated and split down the middle, and inside the rapidly widening mouth shuddered a massive, unfocused eye. It rolled in its socket, its pupil fully dilated and jerking about as it tracked movement. 

Berteloni stood in the center of the writhing room, screaming, shouting his defiant slurs at the Emperor. With a tearing sound, a fleshy spike erupted from the wall, whipping out to spear entirely through him. Berteloni died quickly, foul words still slurring from his lips as he bled out, entirely held up by the thick line of flesh that had yet to withdraw from his body. 

The wall, the chanting – everything became silent for a moment. Like a roomful of conversation suddenly falling into a lull all at the same time. It was only then that I realized the sound I was hearing, a dull, repetitive booming had not come from the creature in the walls as I had immediately thought, but came from outside. I could recognize it as concussive blasts drawing nearer; it was the welcome, beautiful sound of a Lemun Russ battle cannon. It sounded again. And again, and then there were many more booming explosions layered on top of the crackle blast of a tank mounted heavy bolter. It seemed either the Volpene or the Cadians had taken action. 

The room was largely emptied of those still capable of moving. There were a few guardsmen left, each in matching livery and carrying laspistols. They shouted their prayers to whatever foul creature had been called up, their voices blending in with the loud, painful buzzing that hadn't yet abated. I slid around my cover and opened fire, getting one in the chest, another in the arm. There were four other guardsmen taking cover behind a cluster of tables and one more behind another pillar. Along the walls and ceiling, strange and round protuberances rapidly formed, each slitting down the middle in the same manner that very first one had. Eye after eye opened and I fired straight into the one that blinked right beside me. It burst, coating me in thick, white ichor. A great howl resounded and more spikes appeared. I rolled, ducking past two of the guards and they were speared in my place. Lasrounds came from the left and I rolled again, trying to angle toward the terrace doors. Screams came from the hall in the other direction and a quick look through the large double doors told me the situation further in the building was no different. The walls there were pulsating in the same fleshy manner this room was. 

The vox burst to life just as I reached the doors. “Gaunt,” Elim said, his voice welcome in my ear. “Really big. Max radius. The whole building-radius. Possibly more. Standard count with a lag of... oh, just...36” He paused, then continued, cheerfully dark through the vox crackle, “Just start running.”

I ran. 

\--- 

_Apologies for the following excerpt. While Commissar Viktor Hark's mission reports and other dossiers during his career were excellent pieces of writing, both insightful and clearly laid out in content and language, by the time he left the Commissariat and penned his memoirs over a hundred years later, his writing style had taken a dramatic turn towards the worse. It was later discovered that upon retiring, perhaps for extra income or for other more personal reasons, he would also adopt an extravagant, florid writing style and compose a series of highly popular romance novels under a pen name. 37 Perhaps this would explain the sudden shift toward stylistic exuberance that had not been in evidence before._

 

 **From page 468 of _The Grim Noir, My Life On the Brink_**  
“What do you see?” I asked Mkoll, though I had no need to. Every golden screen suspended from massive sky ships and pinioned to the broad sides of soaring towers were displaying the same staticky pict-feed. In between bursts of static, the Planetary Governor jerked like a marionette, screaming wretchedly as he was slowly dissected by naked, blood-covered heretics. On either side, two youngsters were also being slowly tortured, sacrificed in the name of whatever grotesque dark power the heretics worshiped here. I hoped they would not last long, though it seemed unlikely there would be an easy death for either of them; not with such warp-cursed evil at play. The Imperium's capability of extending a body's usefulness far beyond its abilities or desires is renowned across the galaxy. The Warp is capable of even greater trespass on flesh and soul, forcing even the dead to continue to suffer as the living did. I did not know which power this was, what their motivations were, nor did I care. This was Heresy and my duty was clear.

With all six vaunted and decorated regiments here at port, we would destroy every last vestige of the darkness tainting this shrine world and return it to the holy glory it once was. Mkoll came to me even as my vox grew steadily noisier with reports from all over the dock district. The Shenlong had encountered small groups of flamers and were moving their heavy weapons teams against them while the rest mobilized. Meanwhile, a mob of men were heading in the direction of the Hussars, who lit their banners aflame and rode out upon their proud steeds like the majestic, bearded warriors of Ancient Terra engaging in holy battle. The Catachans were splitting into small squads and heading further into the city where their close-quarter combat skills would be of most use. It would be best for the Tanith to follow suit. I turned to give the order, but before I was able to do so, the pict-feed flickered and changed. 

Instead of the sacrificial chamber where dark horrors were being enacted, suddenly, projected huge upon too-small screens was Colonel-Commissar Gaunt, as proud and regal as he ever was under duress. He sat surrounded by richly dressed nobles, all with weapons drawn, threatening him with pistols and ill intent. His hand rested on his bolt pistol, his expression collected, composed, charismatic and imposing despite the clear danger he was in. He was speaking what I am sure were words of great wisdom but, alas, the feed had no sound.

“Mkoll,” I said, refusing to look away from the sight before my eyes. “Try not to destroy every building here.” Ahming Severino, Captain of the Crimson Armageddon was on the vox, her booming voice like thunder as she directed our movements from orbit. 

Mkoll nodded and slid away in an eye-blink, disappearing as thoroughly as the spectres the Tanith were named after. The Tanith First and Only, Gaunt's Ghosts. Each and every time I engage in holy battle alongside these brave men and women, I am once again struck by the dichotomy between the barbarism of their tattooed, rowdy selves and their precise, dare I say ghostly, manner of attack.38 The men and women of the Tanith were not the inept, careless men of backwater worlds drafted, barely trained and without a True desire to serve.

The Tanith were lethally honed blades, sharp as the straight silver they carried. They were stealth warriors of the highest caliber and I am honored to have fought beside them. As I heard Mkoll and the other squad leaders give their orders, I once again turned my attention to the pict-feed and frowned. Gaunt was fighting the men and women in a room come alive with unholy monstrousness. It struck me what was wrong – where was Rawne? Hadn't they left together? The man was a snakish malcontent, a real devil despite the attractiveness of his appearance – perhaps made more deadly and wrong because of that very attractiveness. He was a vicious piece of work, but still a strong fighter and a dutiful soldier. They were his two redeeming qualities and he often applied them with diligence when in Gaunt's company. The camera angle slid sideways and Commissar Gaunt's fearsome ferocity vanished to be replaced by a screaming guard as he was torn apart. A great Eye blinked sleepily at the audience and then the camera went dark.

A moment later, a great booming rumble was heard even over the noise at the docks and the hundreds of soldiers mobilizing at once. A great cloud of smoke shot upwards and flame lit the horizon. The top spire was aflame, burning in its own infamy.

The Tanith were ready. I went with my own squad and together we advanced into the city.

We fought that day. The Volpene and Cadians with the mighty force of their mechanized units clearing a path for our infantry to advance. The Shenlong and Hussars fought flame with their own famed flames, acting as fast, mobile support while the Cadians and my Tanith hit the Enemy quick and hard from every angle. 

It was incredible cooperation, a complete rout. It took a day to retake Hive Barilla.

And then the cleansing began.39

 

\--- 

**Ibram Gaunt's log 2345637, Date: 249.778.M41**

The city was burning. The House was burning. _I_ was burning.

The Governor's house rippled on its foundations as walls cracked and every window from the ground floor up blew out at once. I ran, and boiling fire followed in my wake, the heat singeing my coat, my hair, ripping the breath from my lungs. If I survived this, I promised myself, I was going to make Elim polish my boots for weeks. Every night while I ate his dinner in front of him. I'd do everything in my power to enrage him to the point of incoherence and then do it all over again. My revenge would be as childish as it would be sweet.

Heart pounding, my bolt pistol clutched tightly in one hand, firing at stray cultists as I ran, I headed down the main hall, through the gardens, and over downed furniture as if I vaulted obstacles every day. Imminent death had a way of making one suddenly youthful. And focused.

I should focus, I told myself and realized immediately there was no possible way I could outrun the massive fireball following in my wake. Not with the way the floor was buckling and caving in under me. I detoured and leapt out a window. A short fall below was the moat, its waters choked with chemicals to give it its false appearance of crystalline cleanliness. It was disgusting, but it wouldn't kill me. Not the way the fire would. I fell in a rain of glass and wooden debris and was submerged almost immediately and the last of my breath escaped me entirely. The water heated to an uncomfortable degree, but thankfully not to boiling, as the curling red flames tore through the air overhead, incinerating everything and everyone unlucky enough to still be in its path. The bottom of the moat became a spiked deathtrap as tiles and jagged rock shattered, shooting upwards. I was nearly caught between two slabs that jutted suddenly and then collapsed into each other. Twisting away, my sleeve temporarily pinned between the rock before I pulled free. I stayed in the water as long as I could, my lungs burning.

One doesn't appreciate oxygen quite the same way until one is denied it. I was near blind, both from the burn of the water's chemicals and lack of breath. Hoping I had waited long enough, I clawed my way upwards, my movements hampered by the water-logged weight of my great coat. I broke through the surface and sucked in great lungfuls of blessed air.

When I managed to swim to the opposite side and climb out of the moat, I discovered mayhem. Klaxons sounded, and the roar of tanks and concentrated artillery could be heard clearly across the city. A unit of Valkyries, flying Shenlong colors, had been mustered, and they dipped low in perfect formation, their attack shredding what was left of the Planetary-Governor's house. Yet, somehow it still stood under that barrage. The creature within screamed in rage, its thrashing weakening at each impact of heavy lasfire. Men and women of all stripes ran in every direction. Screaming, fighting each other, with no way to tell who was fighting for whom. A man with a knife charged at me and I drew my power sword, cutting him down absentmindedly. Another man came at me from another direction and I shot him dead.

I walked across the square in that manner, weaving my way through the panicked, mindless throngs, killing anyone that approached me with aggression. The sky was red, great billowing clouds of smoke streaming toward the heavens, turned pink from the glow of fire.

I saw him, not too long later, a dark form striding in my direction. He was covered from head to toe in dirt and soot and blood, barely recognizable, straight silver glinting in his slim hand. Even if there was nothing else to identify him by, I would recognize that smile, that cruel, hard smile as sharp as the war knife he carried. I headed toward him, certain he had seen me. Between us, we cut down three more men before we finally met, he stabbing the final cultist through the ribs from behind, me taking the man's head. Blood splattered as as the body fell, hitting the pavement to twitch at our feet.

“Elim,” I croaked, voice half gone, then cleared my throat. “Major, report.”

“Blew it all sky high, sir,” Elim said. “Right at the source.” I looked back toward the House and watched as a tentacle thrashed, then went still. The Valkyries made another pass, strafing the beast with their lascannons. The House began to crumble inward, walls never meant to withstand the punishment finally caving entirely, crushing everything that lay within.

“And how did you know I would get out in time?”

“I didn't.” Elim shrugged. 

I looked sharply at him.

“Your legs are longer than mine and I got out fine,” he said easily, almost laughingly. And if the enemy didn't get me, he would – those words lay unspoken between us. His eyes were dark with warning, with promise40 – one that I am beginning to suspect may never come to fruition, if the hint of warmth in his gaze was anything to go by. We barely tolerate each other, can't even say we like each other. After all this time, our actions more a matter of duty than trust. But that doesn't explain this moment, this easy camaraderie that wasn't unfamiliar and certainly not the first we'd shared.

It dawned on me finally.

The beautiful bastard.

He was a weapon all right – finicky and nearly impossible to wield – and though he may still cut me one day, blow up in my grasp and be the death of me, I've had him in my hand all this time. He might not even know it, would certainly never admit it, but I held him as surely as I did Heironymo Sondar’s ancient power blade41

I smiled then, feeling suddenly light. Elim's manic grin faltered at the sight, and it only made my own stretch further across my face. I turned from him, from the corpse still twitching on the ground and the burning building at the end of the square.42

“Come along then,” I said as I began to walk. I lengthened my stride. My legs are, after all, longer.43 I felt Elim follow, his dark presence hesitating only a moment before he was half a step behind me, where he should be, sure and certain as any shadow.

\---  
 **  
Footnotes:**

1 Records show that more than one office within the Inquisition, Ordos Xenos included, continued to track Brin Milo's movements as he traveled with the Beati. The contents of these files require a security clearance higher than that of a junior Interrogator, however, and will have to wait for another time. It is safe to say, the suspicions of Warp-taint surrounding young Milo did not fade and the Beati's influence only served to increase the scrutiny on his actions.

2 I doubt that any reader would not be aware of the importance of this world, but for those who have other priorities: Beryl is a small planet of no particular strategic value and had spent most of its history well-insulated from nearly all attacks by the Enemy due to its size and placement – the three significantly larger planets around it making more attractive targets. It has been speculated that many often mistake Beryl for a moon rather than a planet, and records show numerous occasions where the logically placed observation posts were able to give warning to their neighbors as enemy ships coasted past, completely ignorant that the rock they'd just passed was indeed inhabited. What gives this small world import is, as often happens, twofold. One, as might be obvious by its name alone, due to the nature of its geology, Beryl's principal exports are a great variety of precious jewels of a luster and clarity known nowhere else in the Imperium. Second, both Horus the Betrayer and the Primarch Sanguinius have been recorded within the annals to have personally visited Beryl – the first to procure a pearl and diamond headdress for the former and the former for reasons of his own. One can only speculate, but according to history, his solitary visit came not too long after Horus's betrayal became known.

3 Professionally, I must protest, but personally, I can understand a certain level of mistrust considering the friction in Gaunt's past encounters with the Inquisition. I am also fully aware that there are those within the Ordo who be somewhat... abrasive. It cannot be helped, it is the nature of crossed purposes, and the Inquisition's place is hunt the enemy hiding within our midst rather than to make others comfortable.

4 This will be a common occurrence, I'm afraid. It does not matter who is writing or how spartan their style of prose – the moment Rawne appears, the writer will suddenly wax poetic about the handsomeness of his face, and if not that, then they are composing odes to snakes and bladed weapons and devils. No picts survive, but one can speculate that the Major's presence must have been particularly striking for him to inspire such consistent... praise.

5 This would also be a recurring theme. It would not be the first or last time that Gaunt would mention that one of his Tanith had eaten the food meant for him. I am hard pressed to tell whether the Tanith had been operating under a ration shortage or if Gaunt was unusually indulgent of his men. Reputation and requisition forms suggest that neither is the case, yet he does not mention censuring his men for taking liberties.

6 It is hard to discern what Gaunt meant by this, but records show that Rawne had some mildly criminal tendencies and was a bit of a troublemaker. In other parts of his private logs, Gaunt seemed to allude to something of a more personal nature, some sort of agreement between them, but he rarely went into any further detail. At least not enough to draw any solid inferences as to the situation between the two. "Complicated" sums it up nicely.

7 It should be noted that while Gaunt will name individuals, he tended not to go into very much detail about mission specifics, perhaps mindful of the possibility that his private logs might fall into the wrong hands. Luckily, others are significantly more open with details.

8 If you wish to see the official list of ships orbiting the planet at that time, please refer to official log 234I9fs:ii:323fsed3df via space Dock Master DeCocco; Date: 778.M41

9 These days, Commissar Ciaphas Cain has become nearly synonymous with the moniker. However, the title 'Hero of the Imperium' has been used on five separate occasions in our history. Gaunt would be the third. The first would be, I believe, Commissar Shang who served brilliantly for over two centuries before he was finally eaten by a daemonhost who'd taken the form of his long-time friend and adjutant.

10 Obviously set up before hand. Gaunt needed access and an excuse, Governor Ronzoni was willing to cooperate.

11 Here the account devolves into a series of inventory checklists and meaningless doodles. I suspect that Gaunt became so bored that he was writing entries in his log while attending various events. While his boredom doesn't extend to actually writing about what is happening, the local society paper gives extremely detailed, blow-by-blow accounts of exactly what occurred while he attended various gatherings. The Heraldic Gazette in particular kept a running tally of how often Gaunt would blink, take breaths and tug his shirt sleeves.

12 This is not indicative of Rawne's grasp of Gothic or his ability to write. From what little is known of his background, he appeared to be, for the most part, educated, and in reports where he actually cared to do so, he was capable of writing with eloquence. This was apparently _not_ one of the times he felt the need to put forth the effort.

13 I assume by cock he meant 'bantam', since the Tanith were known to enjoy blood sport and even raised their own fighting birds. 

14 Feth or fething - A curse originating from Tanith. It's difficult to say what it means exactly - the pattern of use matches another common Tanith curse 'gakking' but with less aggressive connotations. Some scholars believe it was their world's version of 'frack'. 

15 Gaunt's narrative is interrupted with several pages of doodles which I did not include. 

16 I assume Rawne had reported the assassination attempt to Gaunt. The narrative once again devolves into a series of doodles.

17 Actually, pocket might be a bit of a misnomer. The pocket in question would be more accurately described as a flap that pulled up over the front of the trousers and buttoned in front of the hip bones to form a pouch. There were men who did popularly stuff the area to increase appearance of girth, but the original intention was to create a place to decorously rest the hands, since, the lack of functioning pockets led to a rash of young ne'er-do-wells stuffing their hands down their waistbands and becoming a public nuisance. 

18 The first few pages of this entry are once again devoted to doodles - surprisingly well drawn portraits and a row of dicks, pun intended. Gaunt had done a series of caricatures of several Lords as male genitalia.I think it would be safe to assume that Gaunt didn't like them.

19 It's interesting how ugly Sanguinius and even Fulgrim often are in artworks when the histories are filled with descriptions of their beauty. Rogal Dorn tends to fare better – but perhaps his followers are merely better craftsmen. 

20 There have been times I have said or have been similarly noncommunicative for no reason other than to be difficult. I'm sure I am not alone in this.

21 This is, of course, open to interpretation. 

22 He did, after everything, do so. But the irony here is a little much.

23 Not particularly, though stories would certainly make one think that. The skills and talents of the Inquisition is as varied as the rest of the Imperium. 

24 Actually, that is exactly what he had just done.

25 As was the fashion at the time, all mens boots or shoes bore a heel that was somewhere between two and a half to three inches tall. As Rawne was considered a servant, in anticipation of amount of walking he would have to do for Gaunt's sake, the heels on the shoes given to him would likely have been quite thick as well.

26 Mentioned earlier in Rawne's report, but roofs of the wealthy in Beryl were built with 'security' measures of loosened tiles and three inch spikes that point at an upward angle in anticipation that any thieves attempting to climb across might do the building's owners a favor and slip, fall and stab themselves to death before anyone needed to do anything.

27 It appears Rawne's interest in fighting supersedes serving tea.

28 It is hard to say whether the Major truly did have a streak of domesticity in him, but it seems more likely that he requested one of the House's servants to do the laundry for him.

29 Implying that Gaunt has saved Rawne's life before, but considering how much action the Tanith had seen, it makes sense that they would have saved each other's lives on multiple occasions. This seems to be a reference to a specific event, though.

30 I do not know what those plans were or what manner they did or did not involve Gereon. All files I have been able to find on this matter are either classified or nonexistent but Inquisitor Abidemi was known to be unusually cooperative, preferring to work in conjunction with others on their missions rather than alone.

31 Having realized Gaunt had no interest in their daughters, it seems families had taken to throwing their sons at him as well. His refusal of both only led to increased speculation about his relationship with Rawne who, by this point had taken to carrying his war knife in his fashionably tight trousers. The speculation about the changing girth, size and hardness of his personal anatomy made publication in several moderately circulated papers of the time. 

32 I have never heard it mentioned anywhere that Commissar Gaunt was unobservant, yet in this Rawne-shaped issue he seems to have a consistent blind spot. 

33 I am still uncertain whether that first assassin in the kitchen had been targeting Rawne or the servant boy.

34 He did indeed see them, unfortunately those particular files are far beyond my security clearance. 

35 Just basic acid. It is released when the bullet impacts and shatters, though, with our medical capabilities it is not very effective. The amounts held within the bullets would be small and not enough to kill by the acid alone - the purpose of this would be to make wounds that would be otherwise minor into something significantly more serious. Acid attacks are survivable, however. Painful and disfiguring, but survivable. 

36 'Standard' refers to the ideal ratio of blast radius vs speed of running and time to escape. It is a largely inapplicable equation that is included in the oft ignored introductory packets Guard recruits are handed alongside their infantry primer. Rawne's attempted reference to the standard was likely more for Gaunt's benefit than his own. 

37 Vat Roh Kirk, which as one can easily see is an anagram for Viktor Hark. It has long been speculated that Commissar Hark's experiences and close working relationships with Gaunt and the Tanith First were the inspiration for his popular line of romance novels called, “The Commissar and His Blades”, which featured the imposingly tall and gaunt Commissar Rictus and his regiment of rowdy stealth fighters as they battled both for the Emperor and each other's hearts (though upon reading, perhaps “for access to each other's pants” would be more accurate, bed optional.) Apparently the path to the Emperor's Will lay within the Commissar's trousers.

38 This was the greatest source of contradiction in the records. Among other generals and higher officers there was a common thread that the Tanith were barbarians, barely capable of holding a lasgun, let alone fighting with distinction. Amongst the regiments that fought alongside them, however, often lower officers would submit their praise and commendation for individual Tanith which, collectively, amounted to the entire regiment.

39 The cleansing lasted a month in a joint operation under Ordo Heretica, Ordo Xenos and the Adepta Sororita. Hive population of 34,000,000 became 300,000. After the purges and after rebuilding efforts began, what followed for Hive Barilla was an age of aggressive immigration and expansion leading to a large shift in socioeconomic status. Hive Barilla lived on, but it was never the same again. 

40 This is about as much detail as you get from Commissar Gaunt's writing on this topic. There are no records of what exactly happened between the two. 

41 This was certainly a sort of mutual declaration of _something_ , but I'm still not sure what.

42 This adds nothing to the narrative, but since this dossier is drawing to its conclusion, I've included an excerpt from one of Commissar Hark's romances. 

According to Hark's memoirs, neither Gaunt nor Rawne seem to notice that he was present during their fight across the Governor's front lawn. He had attempted to speak to them but they had been so absorbed with each other, and possibly completely deafened by concussive blasts, neither had acknowledged his presence. It is thought that this very moment was the inspiration for a series of highly popular books taking place within the same universe as "The Commissar and His Blades".

Here is Hark's version of this very event, pg 784, _An Affair to Remember: The Commissar and His Snake_

> The city was aflame, wreathed in red as the great beast died under a barrage of heavy lasfire from the heavens. Commissar Rictus strode across the city square, his tall, black-coated frame imposing. He was death incarnate as he eschewed his bolter pistol for his chainsword. He swung again, and again, scything through the masses of panicked heretics. On the opposite side of the square, Major Solidus fought, stabbing cultists from behind as he drifted silently toward the Commissar, as ephemeral and deadly as any ghost. He was smiling, and the sight enraged Rictus, who had already suffered so much. He ripped the head from the final, last cultist that stood between them, barring him from the dark, vicious man who'd plagued him for so many days, months, years.
> 
> Black coat tangling about his legs as he moved, Rictus stood before Major Solidus, firmly blocking his path. "You," he growled, his voice as fierce as a lion, "will be the death of me."
> 
> "We both got out fine," Solidus said, lip curled and entirely unrepentant. Malcontent. Cheat. Thoroughly untrustworthy. And yet...
> 
> "I have had _enough_!" cried Rictus with ferocity. Solidus's eyes widened, but he did not step back as wiser, lesser men might have. He'd made his career defying Rictus and he wasn't about to stop now. "I have had enough," Rictus said, voice softening, his face glowing soft-gold in the sparking firelight as the square burned around them."You've denied me all these years, again and again, but no more. I will have you. Now. When you are finally in my grasp." 
> 
> Rictus reached out then, his long, bony fingers grasping the more robustly proportioned Major by the arms. His grip was immovable, and Solidus did try, fighting his grasp as he had fought everything about the Commissar, his high cheekbones flushing red in rage as he struggled. Solidus might have been a tall man on his homeworld, a large one even, but compared to Commissar Rictus, he was a sleak creature born of slyness. Rictus was bigger, stronger, faster, better in every way and he used this to his advantage. He drew the smaller man in, giving him no chance to escape, and crushed his mouth over his. Poured his passion, bottled within him for so many years.
> 
> And still Solidus struggled. This was the kiss Rictus had promised between them, had waited years to give and as in everything, Solidus was contrary and uncooperative. Rictus growled, yanking him in tighter, straightening, forcing the Major to his toes and half crushing him to his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, Solidus began to relax in his grip. His mouth softened under his. Solidus' hands no longer pushing Rictus away and instead grasped his shoulders to pull him closer. 
> 
> Rictus growled again, this time as a conqueror, triumphant and his kiss, his hands, his tongue translated as much. He pulled away, snarling into Solidus's finely shaped ear, "I would have you in every way, right here, in front of everyone so they would know that you are mine." His hand slid lower, past the standard issue belt, beneath the Major's coat to touch him, showing him just how he intended to have him. Solidus started, flushing darker, both with growing lust and a renewed anger. Even with such distracting, dominating might directed at him, he was not some young stripling so easily tamed! But before he could say a word, Rictus pulled away and smiled. It was an uncommon, rarely seen smile free of the bitterness, the hate and rage that had plagued his life – it was blinding to the Major, who looked away, unable to face it. 
> 
> "But I won't," Rictus said quietly. Then added, hopefully, a little boyishly, "Unless you wanted to– ?" 
> 
> Major Solidus snorted, still red in the face and catching his breath, but he too pulled away, placing a small space of distance between the two of them. "No," he said, then, just as quietly, "Somewhere else."
> 
> Rictus turned then, a bounce in his step. "Let us go, then!" he cried and strode away, fully confident that he would be followed. After a moment's hesitation, Solidus fell into step behind him, then beside him until the backs of their hands brushed with every step they took through the city and away.
> 
> Nearby, having failed to catch the attention of his fellow officers, Commissar Viktor Chernomyrdin smiled ruefully to himself and tugged his hat further over his eyes. He turned away as he marveled at young love and the persistance of Spring even in these benighted times of terror and greatest Evil. Before him, the great beast screamed once, lifting its arms upward toward the sky, and then fell, dead and defeated.
> 
> As it should be, he thought, as it should be.

There is literally nothing else I can say about this. 

43 I can only assume Colonel-Commissar Gaunt deliberately lengthened his stride to make it more difficult for the Major to keep up. This would be an ongoing theme in their relationship for many years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major Solidus, as in Solid Snake. Get it? HAHAHA. *crying*

**Author's Note:**

> An interesting read, though at times I was uncertain whether I was reading history or a romance. - Amberley Vail
> 
> I wondered that myself. I have added nothing. You are free to read the source material yourself. - Antonius Wong


End file.
